10. Doug.
21.01.24 – 25.01.24 : Barcelona – Valencia
What do you need to know about Doug? Well, he’s a fan of complex infrastructure, is always packing sweets and, until recently, his longest bike ride lasted an hour. What happened recently? Well, I’ll let you work that one out for yourself…
After my slightly self-indulgent, soliloquous stint from Montpellier to Barcelona – a mighty three days, if you remember – I’d decided that The Temptation of Jake would have to wait. I’d become rather fond of Joe’s company in the saddle and wasn’t ready to resign myself to unending solitude just yet. Besides, there’s not enough fodder in the Floyd back catalogue to endure four months of my slapdash rehashing. It was time to find another companion.
The revolving door of Christmas social plans allowed me to put some shoe leather on this recruitment drive. I worked the rounds. You’d often spy me in a secluded corner, singing my siren song in the ear of one friend or other:
So I hear you’ve got some time on your hands. In the in-between, are you? UK’s a bit chillier than I remember, and I hear the mercury’s set to plummet. Henk on the horizon… 20+ in Barcelona – I know! T-shirt weather. Well look, it’s 100k a day, or less. Not as far as you think. No honestly, 4/5 hours in the saddle, tops! Leaves plenty of time in the day to sip down a caña or two and scoff a bowl of bravas.
As it turns out, Doug was ripe for seducing. He has a Big Job starting in March and didn’t take much persuading that a few weeks on the bike might be his last taste of freedom. Going… Add to the mix that he’d just been on jury duty and served on a case lasting just shy of the two week window, meaning he could be called up again if he didn’t arrange some prior engagements sharpish. Going… Plus, when I told him endurance sport = eating all the sweets you can get your hands on… Gone!
The deal was sealed in Oxford where a group had gathered for my sister’s birthday. It was the 6th of January, leaving exactly two weeks to prepare. Scratch might’ve been considered a head start in Doug’s case. Step 1 was elementary: find a bike. But, against all odds (and with the kind donations of several of our friends who already have bike-luggage), by Jan 20th – the day before he’s set to fly out to meet me in Barcelona – Doug was ready. The last thing left to collect was the bike box.
While soaking in the last of the Saturday evening light in one of Barcelona’s sunnier plaças, I get a call. On the literal doorstep of the bike shop where he was set to collect his box, Doug was rear ended by a moped. Derailleur: snapped (don’t we know about that…). Wheel: buckled beyond repair. But luckily, Doug: mostly in one piece. Now you’d think that’d be the end for old Doug. (Well, his trip, that is; let’s not be melodramatic about a grazed knee). But just over 12 hours later, we were unpacking his bike at El Prat, clipping in, and heading for the coast (after adding a few laps of the labyrinthine airport for good measure).
When riding with someone for the first time, whether you recognise it or not, you establish a rhythm. Formation; conversation; navigation; indication. Essentially, it’s calibration. For me, though, those first few kilometres were more a question of respiration… or, more specifically, hyperventilation. Though Doug’s longest bike ride to date may only have been an hour long, as far as I’m concerned he may well hold the hour record. The 28km/h he pulls along the flats wouldn’t be out of place at an amateur club ride in a peloton bristling with carbon. It makes the 20 and change I’ve been managing so far feel rather pedestrian.
This is a phenomenon I’m familiar with. Last year, I was squeezing in some training rides and managed a particularly satisfying weekend triplet. Friday after work: London to Brighton. Overnight in Brighton with a friend. Saturday: Brighton to Broadstairs. Overnight in Broadstairs with my uncle David. Sunday: Broadstairs to London. Much to my delight, both of my hosts wanted to ride out with me in the morning. And both, coincidentally, voiced the same concern: Well, of course, I wouldn’t want to slow you down… Neither should have worried. Both mornings, we set off at a brisk clip. The pace crept up and up until 40km in I was left alone, jelly-legged and dog-tired, to ride the day’s remaining distance (140km in the case of the Brighton to Broadstairs leg). The phrase marathon not a sprint would’ve come in handy if I were able to pedal within earshot – or speak for that matter…
These instances are helpful lessons in humility. Given the reaction you receive when talking about cycling big distances, especially in the case of this trip, it’s easy to let delusions of grandeur take hold. Puffing along to keep up with my (self-identified) non-cyclist-friends, not to mention my uncle of 60-something – who is, in all fairness, a venerable cyclist; far better, in his youth, than I’ll ever be – brings you back down to earth. As it turns out, I’m not a particularly quick rider. Especially now I’m hauling 50kg of Madonna (who still looks great in those jeans, I might add). Cycling these distances is not an unattainable athletic feat. In fact, I realised recently that the difference between me and a good deal of my peers is not of one ability but more reality; many people would be capable of something like this, the only difference is that I just happen to be doing it. This is a comforting thought. It takes the pressure off. It makes the ride less about performance, and more about just showing up.
So, for the last few days, Doug has handled the performance side. I’ve just been showing up, happily hanging out in his slipstream. Rather too literally in Benicarló, as it turned out. Making his way (uncharacteristically slowly) round a mini roundabout, Doug found himself on familiar ground. Cold, hard tarmac. An oily stretch of road sent his wheels from under him and mine followed suit. Unsurprisingly, given Doug’s luck, we managed this textbook deck on the doorstep of a pharmacy. With Doug patched up – now nearing 50:50 plaster:skin – we were on our way once more. When upright, we’ve managed some good distance. We’ve followed the coast from Barcelona to Valencia, knocking off both Miami Beach and Montecarlo in a (rather productive) morning’s riding. An expeditious pace indeed!
The days have been a heady concoction of orange-scrumping, beach-frolicking, and vermut-sampling. Besides vermut, Doug has also been drinking in the local infrastructure. Not far south of El Prat, I caught a gasp of astonishment from up ahead. Zooming round the bend in the coastal road, I was met not with a breathtaking ocean panoramic, but a particularly abrasive agglomeration of concrete, pipes and towers: the old cement factory at Callarca. This particular view was so pleasing to Doug, the gasp-er, that he insisted we stop for lunch in its looming company so that he could savour it a little longer.
Between the factories and power stations of the Costa Daurado, there’s also been some stunning wildlife. One morning, with 140km on the agenda, we set off pre-dawn to knock back a pre-breakfast block. As the morning sun bled into the deep blue of twilight, a colossal murmuration of starlings – a thousand strong – squirmed, silhouetted, across the sky. There’s been some not so stunning wildlife too. The evening before, as I was packing up the last of my kit before bed, I caught an unmistakable glimpse of my old friends: the wild boar. Without a moment’s hesitation, I made a beeline for the tent, their ominous shadows drawing closer as I fled. Luckily, as the adrenaline wore off, I fell asleep quickly, though Doug assures me their snuffles and grunts could be heard rather too close to comfort, well into the night…
There's a fabulous concrete factory on the M5 as well - always gives me a bit of a flush....
Great you have a cycle mate again - hope you can keep up with him!